Free
by Sandra E
Summary: Scott. Rogue. Others. Freedom.
1. The Night

Um. Don't mind the title. It was a requirement.

**Title**: You Can Still Be Free  
**Author**: Sandra   
**Category**: Scott, Rogue, others; character study.  
**Rating**: PG-13.  
**Summary**: Response to the Scott/Rogue Lyric Challenge. "Every participant gets a set of lyrics that was chosen by another participant. Start writing a story based on the given lyrics. The name of the song received becomes the title of the story, and at least one line from the song has to be included in the story. Making a character sing the song doesn't count."   
**Disclaimer**: I don't own Scott, nor do I own Rogue, as is evident from the complete lack of their interaction in the movie.  
**Author's** **Notes**: This wasn't supposed to be a long fic. So much for plans.  
**Archive**: Don't.  
**Feedback**: Well, duh. The assigned lyrics--  
  
You Can Still Be Free  
By _Savage_ _Garden_  
  
Cool breeze and autumn leaves  
Slow motion daylight  
A lone pair of watchful eyes  
Oversee the living  
Feel the presence all around  
A tortured soul  
A wound unhealing  
No regrets or promises  
The past is gone  
But you can still be free  
If time will set you free  
  
Now it's time to spread your wings  
To take flight  
The life endeavor  
Aim for the burning sun  
You're trapped inside  
But you can still be free  
If time will set you free  
But it's a long long way to go  
  
Keep moving way up high  
You see the light  
It shines forever  
Sail through the crimson skies  
The purest light  
The light sets you free  
If time will set you free  
  
Sail through the wind and rain tonight  
You're free to fly tonight  
And you can still be free  
If time will set you free  
And going higher than mountain tops  
And go high the wind don't stop  
Free to fly tonight  
Free to fly tonight 

Prologue:

"What wound did ever heal but by degrees?" -- William Shakespeare

She remembers rivers, you know. These incredibly untamed, blue streams—sometimes she's so tired she forgets their names—that stretched lazily, always brushing wildly against her bare skin as she swam for hours. Remembers the way her hair undulated underwater, weightless and slow, surrounded by bubbles. The way she couldn't tell the difference between the sky and the river because they shared the same color, this heartbreaking shade of clear, cold blue.

She doesn't tell anyone, but she remembers her father.

Smiles at the way he always pointed north with these faraway, dreamy looks found in wanderers—the way his eyes shone when he patted her head and told her how important the Danube was, but _God_, not as beautiful as the Rhine, _nothing_ was as beautiful as the Rhine.

And she remembers one summer, when she couldn't have been much older than nine, the way she sat on a dark train with mom and dad, and her heart beat _so_ fast because she was finally going to see the Rhine. She sat, swallowed by the red leather seat, thinking she was going to see where the river poured into the North Sea, where the stormy waters stopped running away, where they stilled and spanned as far as the eye could see.

But they didn't make it that year.

"Next year," Vati promised with a sturdy smile, and she waited as patiently as she could, because he was her daddy and _her_ _daddy_ always kept his promises.

She remembers the year that followed, when he took them a little further away from home, telling her not to worry, _not to worry_, he just wanted to show her the Danube.

In all her memories, the Danube spilled through these quiet little countries she never knew existed, each of which had a different name for the forked, turbulent river, and she _asked_ dad when he would take her to see where the Rhine peacefully flowed into the North Sea.

"Next year," he promised and ruffled her hair nervously. "It will be safer next year."

The next year dad took her southwest to see the big lake where he met mom.

Mom cried a lot, and it was strange because Mutter never cried.

But she did that year, when she sat at a wooden table near an old gazebo—when she saw the way no one played in the crystal lake. She was now simply Mama, spoken in a generic, fluctuating accent, and she cried shakily over a destroyed bench with her maiden name carved in imperfection; froze when she picked up a burnt pamphlet off the damp ground—

And then Vati, who was as strong as his title, hugged them both, and said that they weren't going to go back home.

The way she remembers it, that's when it started to burn.

Behind her eyelids, in her mouth, on her skin, because suddenly, she was standing alone in the hard rain and the blue sky was gray and the only water was thick, clingy mud and dad was being taken away.

It burned so badly, the wire fence separating them screamed, too, and she knows no one listened because the gate to the North Sea bent and cracked, but never opened.

But a voice whispered, "You can still be free, Marie."

.

Chapter One: _The_ _Night_

I have been one acquainted with the night.

I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.

I have outwalked the furthest city light...

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.

I have been one acquainted with the night.

—Robert Frost

.

There's always guilt.

This horrible, uncomfortable feeling that clutches to a person's psyche like conscience to a soul. With such intensity that time becomes a muddy, murky arch; a wholesome, frozen peak of self-loathing and hate. But guilt is _guilt_, and a common emotion to boot, so it's no surprise Rogue likes to push it away so often. Crush it, stomp it, demean it, make it run with its tail between its legs. It's not healthy, she knows, but Rogue without Marie isn't the poster child for perkiness of spring anyway.

No, _Rogue_ likes to cuddle with darkness, likes the waves of absolutely free numbness that accompany the silence and the night.

But Rogue has a roommate.

Kitty is a good roommate. She is perky and happy, and has this adorable little lava lamp. It glows, glistens, sparkles the faintest shade of blue Rogue has ever seen. Translucent, yet strong enough to cast a sheer blanket of happy, girly light on the small, cramped room.

Sometimes, when the room is doused in the thickest darkness, when everyone is quietly, peacefully settled into their comfortable fluffy little beds, Rogue can hear the soft, almost silent, click of the lamp switch.

This happens most often when Kitty thinks her terrible scary roommate has finally fallen asleep.

The darkness is freeing, so the blue light must go.

It means so much most of the times. It is pain and anger and death by radiation. It is the blue skies of Meridian, the blue lakes after football practice, the blue eyes of scarred skulls, the blue sheen of metal. It is everything she is, yet nothing she wants to be.

So.

The blue must go.

That's why always, not just sometimes, Rogue turns around. Listlessly and stubbornly, she stares at soft little Kitty with her pink little accessories, all fuzzy and loveable. There is complete, terrifying, guilt-inducing silence before Kitty's wide eyes blink. There is a moment longer before she hugs her stuffed animal closer to her chest, the fuzzy pink blanket wrapping around her body. Then, precious little lost Kitty that likes to touch everyone, reaches out and slowly, as slowly as a wounded animal, turns the lamp off.

And there's darkness again. Freedom. Not seeing is not believing, not being seen is being free, right?

On some nights, the guilt subsides and yields under all the resentment one body can foster, and Rogue can watch as Kitty looks out of the narrow, half-opened window, at the pale moonlight barely seeping in through the lace curtains.

On some nights, Rogue can fall asleep watching her, and perhaps, somewhere deep in all those loud minds, gloating.

But tonight it is raining, and the moonlight is paler than the first drift of snowflakes, fine and elusive, shadowed and kept at bay by dull, gray clouds. The dark of the room feels like freedom, for the frailty the day brings to the untouchables, transfers onto those not used to nothingness, and Rogue is finally free in her advantageous vice. Free free _free_.

But, yes, it is raining and rain brings noise. Loud and constant and restraining. Noise so familiar that the room is too small, too suffocating, and this stupid guilt spreads like ink.

So she quietly escapes the room, passing corners and floors until she sees the steps.

The steps are cool—cold stone meeting dusty gravel—and she plans on sitting there, waiting perhaps, until the yard and the huge, distant gate are bathed in the purest of golden morning colors, until the barest of breezes caresses her neck.

There, on those steps, sleeps freedom. She feels it, she knows it, and all she has to do now is wait.

Wait for Logan to come take her away.

.

****

It's autumn.

He doesn't like autumn. He thinks it's a prelude to disaster, to the wasteland that is winter.

On autumn nights he sits at his desk, planning and organizing. Systematically, he calculates budgets for silly things, like garden supplies and pencils. Because autumn is a busy season at Xavier's mansion. It's Fall, and there are students to be taught and clothed and fed. He doesn't have to do these things, he has been repeatedly told, but he likes to do them anyway.

There are leaves piling up under his windowsill, gently rustling in colors darker than Jean's eyes, and tonight, he realizes he needs to go out and get rid of this stifling combination of leaves, twigs and pollen. To go and knock on Ororo's door and ask her nicely whether she could do her magic out there. Sweep, carry, blow them away.

It's raining, and rain is dangerous. It makes everything slippery. Sometimes, his glasses, his uncomfortable red visor slips a little during rain. It glides south, millimeter by millimeter, and at times he'd like to let it just slide right off. Gone, comfortable, free.

But there are more important matters. Perfection of virtue and excellence, and worry, yes, worry. Worry makes him fear the leaves. Rain makes leaves slippery.

Some of the children have allergies, some have tendencies to make trouble.

Some could slip and hurt themselves.

Slip quietly, slide for a bit and bleed in that big, messy yard, under trees and closed windows, in the worst shade of red he can imagine. That yard is an abomination. Countless hours of training, of perfecting his skills, his lethal craft, were spent in that dark, fenced yard. Instructions, advice, help, discovery of a thousand and one way to advance the nothingness.

But now, there's something about that yard that holds his attention.

There are neat, categorized suggestions of red, dark and darker, separating the scene into moments. Plump droplets of lazy rain hit the window, pushing against the glass, working as a team, then slowly, carefully, regroup into irregular, random patterns, trailing their way into the thin layer of dirt at the bottom of the wooden shutters.

There's also a lone silhouette, darker than its surroundings, melting into the stone steps he never liked.

He checks on the beautiful, sighing, sleeping Jean, the feather-soft brush of his lips against her sleeping forehead, and makes his way down.

Quietly, nothing—nothing at all—like a predator, he descends down the carpeted stairs he always liked. Soft and quiet and safe.

He crosses his arms as the breeze swirls around him, almost as if it were greeting him into its embrace. "Are you waiting for something?"

"Uh... of course not, Mr. Summers," the sitting silhouette stammers, startled and distant, her long, wet hair imitating the raindrops.

It is Rogue and, somehow, he is not surprised.

Isn't it fitting, somehow, for rain and darkness to touch the untouchable?

And for the unseeing to witness it?

"I see." He nods, hands now clasped behind his back. It is a habit young people do not customarily acquire, an odd habit he picked up since someone had to. After all, the Professor can't walk around with a frown and hands clasped behind his back. No miracle of mutation has fixed that.

Slowly, with a small cough, Scott Summers clears his throat and sits down next to the girl he only knows as Rogue-Biology-Philosophy-English.

He has had minimal contact with her.

He had taught one class, had one conversation with her before she was taken. They brought her back, and still, he had but one class, one day to understand.

But he doesn't understand. Not yet.

He glances at her profile, then follows her gaze.

There's the gate. Big and beautiful and distant. Cold, sturdy metal shining warm under the moonlight, obscured by the rain, a little muddy because the ground was dry, so dry, and no one swept the driveway in _days_ so he will have to. Soon.

She's looking at it like it holds the answer to every question ever posed. Maybe it does.

That's why he watches with her. He wouldn't mind getting some answers himself.

"I'm sure he'll come back soon," he says seriously, because there is no other way he can say it.

She gives a disinterested little smile, or whatever passes for one here at the Mansion lately, and leans on her knees. Gloved hands wrap around her ankles, picking away at the wet dirty pebbles on the wet dirty ground, and she's not looking at the gate anymore.

There's that strange feeling tugging at his brain again, the one that makes no sense because it contradicts everything a person his age should feel. He is not old enough to be her father, nor is he young enough to be her friend. Yet, he would be both, if it would make everything right again. If it could take those white streaks out of her hair, if it could protect them from things already passed. If it would make him understand.

"He has to. He didn't steal the warranty," he tries again, and oh, she's smiling. Or she was, for the briefest of moments.

Jean. _Jean is good at this sort of thing_, he purses his lips in thought. Jean is the talkative one. The one that can read minds, the one that doesn't look like a mutant, the one that usually helps stray dogs.

The wind picks up, sweeping the yard, forcing the gossamer-thin leaves to dance around, the colors drifting around uselessly. In shades of gray, like every day, with something deep inside him that doesn't acknowledge or want color, and it's suddenly too dark to be here.

But there are other places he could go.

"Do you want me to drive you to town?" he asks as her fingers take apart a large red leaf. Smaller pieces yield to the wind and her brown eyes widen distrustfully, so he adds, "You could buy a shirt. That always makes Jubilee feel better."

She's looking at him, brown eyes slightly narrowed, and mumbles, "I don't need a shirt."

So he keeps looking at her until her expression changes from wary to frightened, and explains, "I know you don't _need_ it. I just thought that maybe you'd want it."

She looks at him strangely, so he clears his throat again. "To cheer you up?"

"I... I don't think I need cheering up." Her head is lowered, but her eyes are on the gate again.

Closer and closer, beautiful and wide, with roads and wide open spaces, with freedom.

He needs to go.

He pastes his best teacher grin onto his wet face. "Well, okay, forget about that, then. Do you want to just go... look at shirts?"

Her shoulders shake for a bit, and she tucks away a few strands behind her ear before she grins back, "Mr. Summers..."

He gets up, and carefully wipes the rain off his glasses, waiting for her. "I'll bring the car around."

"Okay," she shrugs and stands up, casting one last glance at the gate.

.

****

****

He drives slowly, just like a leader would.

His profile is firm. Warm and mysterious, like it has been from the moment he drove the car through the rarely-opened gate.

Behind that silhouetted profile, over the tops of richly colored trees, lie constellations. Stars, expansive and deceptively small, blend into the dusky horizon, and she returns her attention to the road. Two lone lights beam away from the car, and for a moment, she thinks about Kitty.

Kitty, who is alone in the room, who sleeps in fitful excerpts of dreams because she doesn't know what she's allowed to do anymore. Inspiration strikes Rogue and she smiles, clutching the silvery bag closer to her chest, the plastic smell of new things lulling her to sleep.

Something quiet plays on the radio, muffled by the wind because the windows are rolled down and the air is fresh, so who would pay attention to music on a night like this?

The rain has stopped and there's that post-storm scent as the car glides down the road, as sturdy and dependable as the commercial makes it out to be. The air is heavy and thick, with warmth left over from summer, intensified by the smell of wet ground and somehow it doesn't feel like New York anymore. It feels like home. A combination of pre-war, post-divorce home.

Mr. Summers doesn't talk.

He has left her to enjoy the solitary pride that accompanies an over-enthusiastic shopping spree. There are stores open this late at night, this early in the morning, and Rogue has shopped her _heart_ out. _You can take the mutant out of a girl, but you can't take the girl out of the mutant_, he said but smiled and bought her ice cream.

She puts her hand out of the window, feeling the wind bruise her flesh in pleasurable little bolts down this lonely little stretch of the road. The Mansion begins to loom before them.

She remembers dogs.

Dogs that peer out of half rolled-up windows, with cherry-red tongues flopping in the wind, happy and free free free.

Erik had a dog, once upon a long, long time. Of course, there are things dogs must go through when food is scarce. David had a dog, too. She remembers getting it when it was a puppy. How hard it was to find the perfect one. Oh, and it _had_ to be perfect—well bred and gifted—because dogs in Meridian are topics over big, Southern dinners. With pride and bigotry and hatred of anything less than perfect.

Logan never had a dog. At least he doesn't remember having one.

Dogs are best friends, say some, and Logan doesn't need those.

There's a small, wet shape up ahead, dancing in the headlights. It's close, too close, and god, white and fuzzy just like the streaks in her hair. There's a thump, too, as the car bounces forward, and a sliver of light allows her to see a bunny, or a rabbit. Maybe a cat.

Mr. Summers is glancing at the rearview mirror, trying to see if there is anything lying in the middle of the road, and she's looking at him, with eyes as wide as the horizon as he asks, "Ugh. Did I hit it?"

The windows roll up so he can hear her better, and she can finally recognize the melody. Something soft, something she never would have liked were it not for memories of portable phonographs and black and white musicals. Of long, suspenseful arias, and short, perceptive interludes, conveyers of optimistic days of Neptune, of dreams and fantasy and faith so strong it can block out death.

She looks at him, and there, in her mirror, a little dot, farther and farther away, gleams a deep, red color.

"No, it jumped back in time," she says and tries to smile, brown eyes less wide.

She knows he hit it. She knows he knows. He must have heard the thump, felt the bounce, but he asked, and she lied because that's what he wanted to hear. Because it was a perfect ride and had to stay that way.

She doesn't know much about him. She knows he bought her clothes and books. She knows he's going to be her teacher for the next few months, and she knows he was there when she was saved and sacrificed for the good of the mutantkind.

She knows he's trying to understand, though.

And that's enough for now.


	2. The Class

Chapter Two: _The Class_

There is a ladder.

The ladder is always there

hanging innocently...

We know what it is for,

we who have used it.

—_Diving into the Wreck_

__

.

Kitty is wearing the shirt Rogue and he bought last night.

There is a smile so brilliant, so dazzling, plastered on her young face it almost fills that subtle little void in his chest. She is chattering away, waving her arms and rolling her eyes, the corners of her lips eternally upturned into a grin. Rogue is with her, and there's something on her face, some delicate little light erasing the night's shadows as she walks into the classroom, listening to her roommate.

It's probably involuntary, but he grins at her and she almost smiles back, the shiny new textbooks clutched tightly in her gloved little arms. The bell rings, the class starts, and he's The Teacher again. He's been at this for a while now, and there are abstract theories and condensed experiments to explain.

The classes are small, as symbolically accentuated as he has ever seen them. This is the class he likes best. Filled with almost-grown-ups, almost heroes. There's a proportionate amount of strength among them and pride tugs at his non-human parts.

It's not because he has finally realized, accepted, come to love his mutation.

It's not because it's such a special, sunny day.

It is because he has read this morning's paper.

Danger lurks between those crafty, polite sentences. The letters, black on white and lacking any shades of gray, spell out nothing. Nothing that can soothe troubled, mutant minds. Nothing to affirm their efforts. Nothing to help bridge the divide.

But he has this class.

He has children who lived, and continue to live as he does, anxious but normal.

So the paper doesn't bother him just yet. The front page still offers a home to sex scandals, and the Mutant Registration Act still resides on hidden little pages of obscure parts the dogs slobber on. And as The World section celebrates evolution, the local paranoia section claims the end of the world is coming. Evolution is sin, has always been. Change is unacceptable, non-Christian, Satanic. We shall be punished as we have been before. We shall drown in freak power and who will be our new Noah?

Scott Summers doesn't preach science. He teaches fact. He knows about progress, biological and cultural, but sometimes, only sometimes, he worries. He has grown up fearing abominations, not unlike a little girl from Meridian, and is looking for redemption for something he has not done.

He can hear himself speaking. He can see them absorbing his words, clinging to theories and facts, but there are times when the doubts waken and stir until he can't help but wonder what it is that _he_ believes.

"Genetic variation and natural selection are two sides of a unitary and simultaneous process. Like a two-headed coin, if you will." He flips a coin ceremoniously, listening to the squeak of the hardwood floors. "Mutations are rare. Exceedingly so. They occur when there is struggle for existence, and are therefore favored over the typical—"

There is a hand in the air, shy but demanding, and he inclines his head questioningly.

"Is it random?" the girl asks, her brown eyes wary. "The mutation, I mean."

The leaves in that dangerous yard were swept away, and there's no reason for the students to be hurt now. Of course, that doesn't protect them from kidnappings and sacrifices, but it helps. It helps him decide whether to tell them the truth.

Truth can be like a lullaby. Only he has never liked lullabies. There are cradles that break, and babies that fall, so why tell the truth? He practiced that theory last night.

So he opts for something in between. Something he doesn't have to sugarcoat or deny.

"We'll deal with doctrines and theses on that subject later on in the semester." He moves near the blackboard and begins to draw mathematically perfect graphs. Maybe when there are stories celebrating mutation on the front page of every paper delivered to Xavier's Mansion, maybe then he will tackle this issue without Jean.

Because Jean always has an answer. The right answer.

.

There's a party upstairs, a loud, rambunctious gathering of students to celebrate the miracle that is Friday, but she's sitting outside.

On those cool steps—cold stone meeting dusty gravel—looking at the gate.

The night is blue, barely night at all, fresh from its walk with day. The dusky horizon rides low in the distance, and the gate is shadowed by trees. Tonight, it doesn't matter. Tonight she feels the nightmares crawling around her head, screaming for attention, hiding mocking portrayals of life and death and love behind her eyelids.

So she keeps her eyes open and focused and maybe nightmares won't happen that way.

"How are you?" comes a voice somewhere behind her, and the shock is less this time.

Mr. Summers is almost a constant now.

The routine is familiar. He sits next to her, and perhaps it's her imagination, but he is sitting closer tonight, his shoulders hunched just a bit more than usual.

"Oh, good. Everything's great. The night is young, the sky is clear, stars are twinkling, there's a light at the end of the tunnel, and a silver lining in every cloud." She leans on her knees, her hair touching the ground.

"That's great," he says quietly, nodding to himself.

They watch the gate together, the cold, shiny metal, not unlike the two pieces discreetly hidden under her black shirt.

Except, the metal under her shirt carries a name and a past and a promise.

But it has been long, so long since she first put it on.

"Actually, the stars don't really twinkle," she says absentmindedly.

"No?" he looks at her, back muscles stiff.

She has had nightmares where he looks at her like that. Where he expects something from her.

Those are _C Level_ nightmares. _A Level_ nightmares are a cooperation. Logan and Erik and their morbid competitions inside her head. So many times, too many, she dreams the world is ending.

There are numerous scenarios taking place in those dreams, those nightmares of theirs. Some are vivid as if they happened already, as if they're a warning, and she feels empty and hopeless and helpless.

Erik doesn't help.

Erik has dreamed of everything in his lifetime. Some nightmares aren't even dreams.

He has a particular favorite. She (they, it, he) is waiting in line and there, on some television set hidden in the bushes, there's calm reporting that the world is coming to an end. And she starts running, because the TV said they hope everyone is with their loved ones. Only she can't find her loved ones.

Sometimes, Logan likes to contribute. He adds a nonchalant passerby, dressed all in white, but veiled in green bubbles, that tells her they are evacuating the planet, and they're taking everyone—_everyone, sweetie_—everyone but her.

She always runs. Every dream, every nightmare, every situation.

And still, everything around her is a prison.

Sometimes she hopes it's only the pessimism those two locked away over the years. The kind that wants to break mirrors just so it would be certain to live for another seven years.

Sometimes, it's nightmares all her own.

So, yes, it is very important to keep her eyes open.

"No. It's the atmosphere. It's interfering with our view. That's why observatories are built high atop mountains," she says clearly this time, focusing on the midnight blue sky.

He looks at her to see whether she's serious, then grins. "What about silver linings?"

"Oh, those are real," she grins back and closes her eyes against her knees.

It's getting colder now. The days are shorter, nights longer, darkness more constant. It should feel better, but it doesn't. Something is hanging in the air. Something heavy and dangerous and close.

"Didn't know you had an interest in that kind of stuff," he breaks the silence again, and she opens her eyes to look at him.

"I don't. Erik did," she shrugs slightly. She knows he doesn't want to ask, but wants to know, so she bites her lip and says, "He's a walking library, you know."

He looks uncomfortable now, but the question is there, lingering and waiting to roll from her lips, so she asks, "Do you think the Professor would let me see him?"

The eyebrows underneath those dark glasses quirk up. "Why—why would you want to see him?"

"I don't know. I don't. I'm just asking. I don't want to see him," she says quickly.

And she doesn't. Why would she want to see a man who makes her dream of wild rivers instead of evergreens that are covered in snow, so tall and glistening and hers? There is no reason to subject herself to the image of a prison, the umpteenth obstacle for that man. No reason at all.

But it's there. That awful guilt, that need to know, to comfort and forgive. To ask him about freedom.

"He's just... he's not really a monster," she says quietly.

Mr. Summers is not convinced. There's that familiar little frown, and the little red mark his glasses leave as he pushes them up, so tired and lost in thought. He has been frowning a lot lately.

"You think that our..." she tries again, and stumbles over words that do not want to be said aloud. "Would you consider what we are better than what we're not?"

"Rogue?" He cocks his head at her, and she feels frightened under all that focusing, under all that undivided attention.

"Well, it's just that—that my mama always said that God works in mysterious ways. I'm just wondering if God made us, uh, freaks, on purpose."

He looks puzzled for a moment, and she wonders whether it is the concept of God or mothers that makes him think before he speaks.

He has avoided this question before. But she has to know.

He takes off his glasses, and rubs the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed as he massages the little red mark the thin, shiny frames left.

"Well... the production of genetic variations must be an innate capability of life," he says, eyes still closed. "In the same way that the genetic conservatism—"

"I'm not asking you as a teacher, Mr. Summers," she inclines her head gently.

"I know, Rogue. I just... I don't have an answer." The glasses are back on, and he's looking at the gate.

"Not one I'd like, you mean," she nods, and joins him in the observation.

"You don't want me to answer that," he mumbles.

"Why not?" she glances at him.

"I'd sound corny," he grins.

"Yeah, we gotta avoid that," she grins, and they're back to watching the cold, shiny gate.

.

He has swept her off her feet.

He has rushed into the room, and picked her up. He has never done it before, but tonight is special. There is darkness to be banished, and tonight, he doesn't want any darkness.

Jean is moaning softly beneath him, and he needs passion. He needs comfort, but doesn't ask for it. He waits and hopes that she will recognize the need. She is, after all, a telepath.

But it's still there. The emptiness. And traces of guilt, of course. The actions are good and proper, but the motivation, the goal, is wrong. He won't tell her, but it kills him—just a little—every time she doesn't look at his face, but whispers his name.

So he kisses her, desperately and deeply, and she stops for a moment.

"Scott? Is there something wrong?" she asks, her cheeks flushed, blouse unbuttoned.

He shakes his head, and lowers his lips to her delicate neck.

"Did something happen today?" she asks again, arching her back. He takes her by surprise, and there is such a lack of control in his movements that she pushes herself away.

"Did something happen in class?" Her eyes are narrowed, red mane framing her face. He loves her. He does. He knows what love is, doesn't he? He believes in it. Why shouldn't he?

"No, nothing happened," he says calmly. There it is. That tiny hope that she would look inside his head, his mind, his fears. But she doesn't. She doesn't know it's not as systematic, as organized inside as is outside. She doesn't want to guess.

But she _had_ to see what was inside the Wolverine. She was scared and excited and he saw it. On her face, in her kisses, that night. He, Scott Summers, Fearless Leader, Sir, is safe, isn't he? Isn't that why Jean loves him? Because he rises above?

She's not convinced, but she let's it go.

Just like he knew she would.

Minutes later, she is breathing normally once again, snuggled into his arms.

He hasn't found it. Neither the comfort, nor the passion.

But it's probably his fault anyway.


	3. The War Zone

****

Chapter Three: _War Zone_

What the fuck are you doing in a war zone, Sugar?...

This is no shake-n-bake war where little girls can help...

You show me your war and I'll show you mine.

—_Donut Dolly, Jeanine Lemmons_

.

There is something different today.

The X-Men have abandoned their first classes.

She has noticed Ororo storming down the hallway early this morning, her gorgeous white locks flowing behind her like the finest silk.

But Mr. Summers is keeping up appearances. He has greeted the students like he does every morning.

Kitty and Jubilee don't buy it, though. Neither does Rogue.

She knows him better than that. The smile is gone; erased, not hibernating.

And Bobby.

Bobby is fidgeting in his seat, a thin layer of ice coating his desk.

Bobby's a nice guy. Even nicer than he was before she ran away. He is kind and sweet, and everything a girl could want out of a mutant.

Sometimes she can hear him on Sundays.

He plays the piano like her mother used to, once upon a happy time, early in the mornings, when just the birds outside can hear the melody. His fingers are long, thin and graceful, and she knows because he held her gloved hands many, many times, yay.

But she doesn't know whether his skin is as cold as his mutation. And she knows that bothers him for some strange reason.

Sometimes, he looks at her with those baby blue icicles, and she can see him weighing his options.

He won't tell her that, no, never, because he reads newspapers, and looks up to men like Scott Summers.

He has qualities she's never noticed in others, and sometimes, sometimes it seems as though he does understand. But he is still young, so young it's not wrong to call him pretty, and he can't provide her with answers.

Fortunately, there are others that can.

Scott Summers is in a hurry. She can tell. The way he rushes through the lesson. The almost-exasperated look on his face, the nervous twitch in his muscles. He's waiting for something. A fight, perhaps.

The bell doesn't ring today, but they know the class has ended. Mr. Summers has made his way to the door, leaving them to look at his departing back.

Bobby is still fidgeting, and Jubilee is nervously drumming her fingers, so Rogue leaves her seat.

Her steps are quick, calculated, and she doesn't have to search far.

Surrounded by silvery walls, there he stands, lost and trapped in thought.

So, she frowns and stares at him until he stops glaring at the shiny, cold elevator.

He notices her quickly, with that visor that probably sees every universal flaw, and asks, "Is something the matter?"

She ponders for a moment, then cocks her head slightly. "I don't know. I was hoping you'd tell me."

He's lied to her before, so there's no surprise that he's doing it again. "No. Everything's okay. Shouldn't you be going to your next class?"

Smirk. Pause. Look. "Right. I saw the news," she tells him confidently.

And now he can't lie anymore, so he looks away, tugging his leather gloves up. "We'll take care of it. Don't worry."

A heartbeat later, before she can open her mouth to protest, Miss Grey runs out of the elevator. She is graceful and beautiful, and Rogue can't help but watch her with the tiniest amount of awe. The perfect amount she can bestow upon someone Logan thinks about during long, sleepless nights.

"Scott, the Blackbird?" Jean asks in that honeyed, warm voice that promises cookies to little boys if they're good.

"Still warming up, Jean. Be ready in five, okay?" Mr. Summers answers, and Miss Grey nods. With a few quick strides, she disappears into the steel pits of the mansion.

Mr. Summers is looking at Rogue again. Uncomfortably. A guilty, discomforting expression looms on that boyish face, so she asks, "And you're all leaving to take care of this little nothing, right?"

Now those full, teacher lips are forming a thin line, and she half-expects him to just walk away, or tell her it's none of her business. But oh, it _is_ her business, and fear can't be laid to rest unless someone can soothe it.

So she stares at him while he watches her face, observing until he reverts back into the person who likes to sit with her on those cold steps—cool stone meeting dusty gravel—and nods. "Well, we knew they'd find out someday."

And now, again, the news become real, threatening, because it's not just on the TV anymore, it's practically knocking on the door. Their door.

Humans are historically doomed to repeat their mistakes, she's learned. But it's not only humans that make mistakes. No, mutants try to expand their race. Mutants make mistakes. They shine the spotlight on fear, domineering differences as they climb to power.

But this is the civilized world, 21st century's answer to the Constitution, and stories of failed attempts to monopolize humanity are a journalist's wet dream come true.

Because if a crazy old mutant had succeeded, if he hadn't been stopped by some mysterious force (modern-day Superman, who _must_ be human), if a fraction of a second lasted longer, New York would be a wasteland.

Filled with millions of watery skeletons that could never, ever, compare to millions of charred skeletons from decades before.

So, it is fear and panic and history that set off today's riot, because, finally, _finally_ they have found where this crazy old mutant is being held. He hasn't been killed, no sirree, no electric chair or guillotine for this psycho.

What a humiliating blow to humanity.

"Better sooner than later. Isn't that what they say?" he tries to grin as he walks closer to her.

Jubilee's peeking behind Bobby's shoulder now, off in the distance, and Rogue clears her throat.

There's an interesting invisible spot on the floor, one that she believes is perfect to corner him. "Did you mean it?"

"Did I mean what, Rogue?" He's getting antsy, she can tell. Maybe it is because the Blackbird is waiting, with his Jean inside, or maybe, just maybe, he knows the time has come to tell her the truth.

"That whole speech on the rarity of mutation. Gotta cherish it, we're so special, yadda, yadda, yadda. Is that why you're going today? 'Cause you believe in it so much?"

He takes a long moment to think, and Rogue can see his commlink beeping furiously, but he places a hand on her shoulder, fearlessly and comfortingly. "Did you ever read Jean's doctrine?"

"Can't say that I did," she grins, looking up at him.

"Well, her thesis says that all rare things are to be respected." He's got that distant look on his face, the one he gets when he talks about Jean lately, and the comment rolls down her lips before she has the chance to think it through.

"Historically or idealistically?" she smirks.

"That's what she wrote." One eyebrow is standing at attention, and his hand is still on her shoulder, molding to the curve, the arch where her shoulder becomes her arm. She doesn't know whether he knows or not, but his hand is slipping. Just like that visor of his could, just like her gloves could.

There's some type of freedom in the way he touches her. Unconscious, uncontrolled contact, so she ignores the gentle possessiveness, and inquires, "What would you have written?"

Suddenly, he's grinning, on the verge of laughing, and it could be just the pre-mission pseudo-hysteria, but she doesn't care as he leans in and tells her confidentially, "Nothing changed from last night, Rogue. I still don't know. Really. For all I know, we could wake up tomorrow and wonder about that weird dream we had."

She's looking at his perfectly arranged face, inches from hers, then smiling, she says, "Thanks."

"For what?" Confusion grabs his features for a moment as his hand slips from her shoulder back to his side.

That heavy, dark feeling that's been suffocating the air lately is thinning now. The news are a little less real, and this man before her is a lot less perfect. "I'd rather think not everyone was a blind idealist. Feels better not to be a freak among freaks."

He's looking, interchangeably, at his commlink and her, so she offers him her genuine smile as he nods his goodbye and leaves.

"Good luck."

.

Thirteen.

That's how many battles he's been through. Simulated ones, excluded. And battle is really the wrong word. Isn't it meant to describe horses and swords and generals with long white beards? When has it begun to be synonymous with disgusted, loathing looks from people who look so much like the people he grew up around?

He remembers.

There was Joe, the old man who sold tomatoes and rose bouquets on the corner of Main and 3rd. There was Mary, too. Housewife, mother of two. She used to give him cookies when he came over to play with her son, Mikey. Later, when he was taking her daughter to the junior prom, she slipped him some rare red wine with a secretive smile, telling him he was old enough for it now.

He saw these people in that crowd today. Not _those_ exact people, but their faces. Skewed and distorted by fear masquerading as rage, taking shelter under posters and flags and wooden signs.

Ten years ago, which side would he have been on?

The hallway connecting to the lobby-like living room is warm. He's been standing there for a few minutes now. Unnoticed, free to observe.

Rogue, who he now has the strangest urge to call Marie, is watching TV. Kitty is sprawled on the couch next to her, her head in Rogue's lap. St. John and Bobby are playing foosball, loudly and obnoxiously, but he doesn't mind. They're smiling, genuinely and—and that's enough.

Rogue yawns and suddenly looks over her shoulder. He knows she's seen him, so he nods at her silently.

He straightens his back away from the wall, still dressed in his X-Men uniform, and heads for the kitchen.

The kitchen is bright, with tiny numbers glowing a neon green. Microwaves, fridges, ovens, dishwashers. Everything keeps time now. Time that seems to be running out.

"Had fun?" she ventures as she follows him in.

"Yeah." He doesn't look up from his search for something edible. Somehow, he's not in the mood for tomatoes.

"I guess there's no point in asking, huh?" she asks carefully, so he glances over his shoulder.

He's not ready to tell her yet. "What do you feel like eating?"

She shrugs innocently, and comes closer to sit on one of the tall stools near the island. "Oh, anything."

"Duly noted. Goat cheese it is."

"Fair enough. Ice cream?"

He nods, and starts digging around in the freezer. The chilly cold is soothing. After warmth comes cold, he knows, and he expects it. In a sort of weird balance, the cold must last longer.

An icicle hangs from the freezer's rack, so he yanks it away, breaking it in half before it lands into the sink.

Will that happen to him? Will he crack one day? Abandon the cause, this rocket ship that's going nowhere? Stray from the course, fall off the wagon, slip when it gets wet?

And it will get wet. Soon. It will rain again.

"Did you get to see him?" she whispers, tapping her fingers on the marble surface.

They both know whom she's talking about. It doesn't take a genius to understand, but when they talk now, it comes naturally.

"No. They moved him. Security reasons."

She looks at her fingers, feigning disinterest. "Good."

He lets her be silent as he sits across her. He scoops out the ice cream, delicious and chocolatey, waiting for her to ask. Because she _will_ ask. And he understands that much now.

"And, uh... he's okay?"

Their pretty glass bowls are now full, so he pushes the chocolate syrup closer to her, as if to nudge her to eat. Casually, as nonchalantly as possible, he ventures, "Have you talked to the Professor about a visit?"

Her eyes open wide, and her spoon freezes midair. She clears her throat quickly. She's learning. And he's teaching her. "To Disneyland? Hmm. Maybe when I save up enough money. Guess I have to get a job first—"

"I'll go with you, you know." He's looking at the ice cream, chocolate chip melting on the silver spoon.

"To Disneyland? Little old, don'tcha think?" she tries again, with a nervous glance.

It worries him. He's been teaching her the wrong things.

Like today.

Which side was he on today? Which side did he _want_ to be on? If he could, would he jump at the opportunity to be normal? Should he? Would he stand outside, in any kind of weather, with banners and catchy slogans, throwing what he could at prison guards? Would he want Magneto dead? Does he anyway?

He doesn't know.

But he'd like to find out.

"We could go next month." Once winter comes knocking on their doors. Walking in the winter wonderland, on their way to Grandfather's House. With wine and cookies and curiosity that killed the cat.

She thinks for a while, looking at the melting French Vanilla on her spoon. Then, with determination that he wishes he could see more often, she says, "Yeah, okay."


	4. The Winter

****

Chapter Four: _Winter_

Do you know what I was, how I lived? You know

what despair is; then winter should have meaning for you.

__

—Louise Gluck

.

Sanity can easily erode during long waiting periods.

Fortunately, there are ways to distract oneself.

"Dude puts a whole new meaning on that weight of the world thing. The Prof is thinking of putting him on the junior team. Thank god I'm moving to varsity," St. John comments, and she tunes back in.

"Well, you never know why the Prof does the things he does," Jubilee replies confidentially. Then, she leans closer and whispers, "I heard there's shit going down with that whole Mutant Registration Act."

Rogue tunes back out.

Sometimes she wants to smack them all upside the head. What exactly do they know about _shit_? About being different? Yes, they're mutants, yes, some of them haven't lived with the Brady Bunch, but, God, _what_ do they know?

"Yeah, guess we need every mutant we can get," Bobby shrugs, then coughs. He's been coughing a lot lately.

Again, Rogue listens quietly. The class started forty-one minutes ago, and he's still not there. Today's News: Stock Market plunge, baby in a well, famous actor caught getting liposuction.

No attacks on plastic prisons. He should _be_ here. Where is he?

"Like I, for one, don't think we're in trouble. I mean, like, this isn't the Middle Ages. No Spanish Inquisition breakin' down the door, burnin' witches, you know?" Kitty says from her nicely polished desk. She's been scribbling hearts and arrows for thirty minutes on her notebook, and Rogue is getting antsy.

"Not according to Monty Python." she mutters to herself.

The doors open, and he's here.

He doesn't come in completely, though. He's standing at the entrance, talking to someone. Jean. Perfect, tall Jean. With her red hair and red lips and red blouse. Does she do it for him, Rogue wonders? Dress in so much red?

Red has never been Marie's color.

She wouldn't wear it now, not even if her life depended on it.

She remembers her mother's red silk blouses and what wearing them of Fridays meant. Red stop signs, and red jelly on sharp claws, and cool, red grass.

Bobby coughs again, so she stops her bemused analysis of scattered, foreign memories, and looks at the door again.

If she were capable of jealousy on such trivial matters, she would probably recognize it now. Hypothetically, she should be jealous of Jean. Jean can touch. Jeannie can get Wolverine back with two words. Miss Grey has Scott smiling at her.

"—six, five, four, three—" St. John mumbles excitedly, glaring at his watch.

The bell rings, commotion ensues, and Rogue stands up.

"I'll catch you guys later," she whispers to Kitty, absentmindedly watching her classmates leave. Jean is leaving, too.

So, she walks toward his desk. There's a rhythm to her step. Almost a bounce.

She's not going to ask him where he was. She doesn't care. It's none of her business. She's not Jean, she doesn't have to know.

"Tomorrow?" she smiles brilliantly, clutching her textbooks to her chest.

"Well, hello to you, too." Grinning, he sits behind his desk, looking at her.

"What did Miss Grey say?" she leans against his desk.

"She called it a wonderful experiment in will-power."

Rogue wrinkles her nose. "No, seriously."

"Said I should wear plastic eyewear, and shove a pineapple up the bastard's ass." He's still looking at her, and were it not for the glasses, his eyes would probably sparkle.

She giggles, shaking her head. She could classify this as a 'moment,' but it breaks much too soon.

Scott's standing up slowly, an angry look on his face.

He's looking at something behind her, and she doesn't have to turn around.

Her stomach tightens, throat constricts, lips part.

"She sure got a mouth on her." And it's that voice. The one she can sometimes remember. The growling, deep voice that feels like silk on the back of her neck.

"Hey, Kid."

Logan.

.

He's tracking snow all over the hardwood floors.

His boots are covered with dirty snowflakes, melting into the shiny parquet. He's leaning against the door frame, cocky and arrogant, and Scott wouldn't mind wiping that smirk off his face.

"Logan?" Rogue asks carefully, as if she's imagined this scene so many times it has lost its meaning. For a moment, something soft flutters across Wolverine's features, erasing that superior quality he's engraved into his personality.

It's a strange rivalry Scott's experiencing.

Not quite hate, because Scott Summers has been trained not to hate, but close. Men are wolves; they live according to rank. Alpha and Omega with legions of Betas. Scott is Fearless Leader, has always been, and believes always will be, but Wolverine's an Alpha, too.

And what Alpha wants, Alpha gets.

So Scott stops his analysis before he comes to a conclusion he certainly won't like.

"You came back?" Rogue frowns in slight confusion, and the Wolverine straightens.

"Nah, Kid, I'll be leavin' soon. I got some business to take care of here with Wheels, and then I'm off," he mumbles darkly, and finally steps into the classroom.

Scott observes quietly as Rogue searches for an appropriate question.

"You're okay, though?" she asks finally.

The Wolverine watches her, hurt and tarnished, hazel eyes focused on the those silvery streaks, then nods.

It isn't harmless rivalry anymore, Scott knows.

It is a competition, one that shouldn't happen, but most assuredly will.

"Wolverine. Brought my bike back?" he finally speaks, arms crossed.

The man shifts his glare to him, and suddenly, the smirk is back. "Didn't see no one ice skating in hell lately. You?"

He can feel his lips thinning, and a familiar burning at the corners of his eyes tugs at his concentration. Sometimes, when Jean mumbles in her sleep, late at night, he wonders. Wonders what he'd do to Wolverine if he was allowed to. If he was free to zap—

Free? Wasn't he free?

"Do I need to break you two up?" a voice floats in behind Wolverine.

"We ain't dating, Jeannie," a vicious grin before he faces Scott again. "Where's Chuck?"

"His office. I'm sure you remember where that is," Scott replies coldly. Jean scowls at him, a little angry and a lot disappointed, but not that it matters now that _Wolverine_ is back.

"I was headed there myself, Logan," she says and finally notices Rogue, staring at her silently.

Unconsciously, Scott takes a step closer to the student, and watches as Wolverine grins his least offensive grin at Jean.

He's almost out the door before he turns around. "I got a whole day for you tomorrow, Kid. What do you say?"

And that's a question Scott would like an answer to, as well.

To his mild surprise, Rogue is looking at him, not Wolverine. Big brown eyes questioning, wondering, asking for advice, guidance, help.

So, he puts aside his selfish reasoning, and gives the slightest of disinterested nods.

"Yeah. Tomorrow," she says softly. The Wolverine stares for a moment, at Rogue, then Scott, promptly rushing off after Jean.

Scott ignores the drifting laughter. Jean's laughter.

The room tumbles into silence as he sulks. He won't recognize it as sulking, but Rogue does. In a heartbeat, she's standing in front of him, small and different and not as young anymore.

"When can we go next?" she asks, boring her eyes into his glasses.

He watches her for a moment, then says without sighing, "Two weeks. I'll make the appointment."

"Thanks," she says meaningfully.

.

Logan is leaving.

He hasn't said goodbye this time. And this time, she's not going to run after him.

She watches him stomp through snow. For a moment, she's compelled to go to the door, and tell him that the driveway is shoveled clean, but she notes the look of satisfaction on his face, and thinks better of it. She leans against the windowsill, absentmindedly noting the patterns her warm breath makes on the frosty windows.

Then she sees it.

The bike. Mr. Summers' pride and joy, take two. It is leaning against the siding, unprotected from snow and Wolverine because Mr. Summers is too trusting sometimes. It stings for a bit when she sees it yanked onto the iced gravel, and again, she almost runs out to tell him not to.

But someone's tapping her on the shoulder, so, startled, she turns around.

"Something's wrong with Bobby," Kitty whispers to her. She is wearing The Shirt again. Pink and sparkly and so Kitty, and Rogue's never been happier to have bought it.

"Rogue, did you hear me?" Kitty says again, little louder this time. "Something's wrong with Bobby."

Soon, Rogue is standing up, somewhat panicky and lost. Kitty tugs at her arm persistently, so she yields and lets herself be led away.

A last glance out the window assures her that Logan is once again gone.

And then, the hallways are a blur.

"Is that right?" she hears someone ask. Not too distant, but tinny and echoing. The room is before her. Kitty nods and stares at the wooden doors. _Bobby's_ _room_, she mumbles.

"And how long has this been going on?" the voice asks again, and now Rogue can recognize it. Jean.

The doors swing open, and Jean looks out. A look of almost-relief breezes across her face when she sees Kitty and Rogue; harmless children to the mighty doctor. She closes her eyes lightly, and Rogue knows she's talking to the Professor.

What about, Rogue wonders fleetingly.

She dares a peek. Behind Jean, stands a fidgety St. John. There's coughing in the background, so she steps around the good doctor and enters the room.

Kitty follows, but no one notices.

Bobby, and his baby blue icicles, is pale. As white and chalky as the snow outside. His lips, those full, rosy lips that tell the worst jokes, are familiarly red. And those long, thin fingers that play the piano on Sunday mornings are bloody. She steps closer to touch them, but a hand touches her shoulder.

She spins around, lips parted, brows drawn, and questions Jean. "What happened?"

"It's the flu," Jean says unconvincingly. Kitty starts sobbing in one of the white corners, so Jean tries again, softer this time. "Just a virus. Nothing to be concerned about. We'll take him to the infirmary and he'll be okay in no time."

And something about the way Jean says virus, with a hint of foreshadowing and fear, worries Rogue.

Two boys, one tall and one new, creep into the room quietly. Rogue watches Kitty numbly. The smaller kids, youngest one missing, are now assembled at the door, observing in confusion and a kind of wonderment. She remembers those expressions.

And she remembers Mr. Summers bursting into the room to take care of everything, just like he is now.

His lips are a thin line, his profile strong and stoic like the winter outside, and, yes, now she knows something is wrong.

The boys, deft but wobbly, handle Bobby, and Rogue watches him disappear through the scratched doors.

She glances at Kitty, who sometimes has a sense about these things. Like late at night when Rogue is ready to sleep, but Kitty tells her not to. _You'll have a nightmare_, she often tells her, so Rogue talks about silly things like boys and movies until pink little Kitty is asleep.

And now, those small pink shoulders are shaking as Kitty cries silently. St. John is staring blankly at the windows, holding her, so Rogue draws her gaze up to look for reassurance.

Slowly, as if he were unsure of himself, Mr. Summers reaches out toward her. She feels the prickle of tears behind her eyelids, so instead of letting them fall, she steps forward into his warm arms. He holds her stiffly, uncomfortably, but she doesn't care. She curls her hands on his chest and rests her head.

The children have scattered around after Jean, some shouting and running straight into Ororo's loving arms. The room is deathly quiet, save Kitty's soft whimpers.

Rogue's eyes are wide open, but she's calm. The arms around her tighten, and suddenly, the embrace isn't stiff, nor uncomfortable. It's warm and comforting and answers a part of her question.

She looks out the window. Snowflake after snowflake falls, drifting onto the glass windows.

Winter is coming.

No, she corrects herself.

Winter is here.


End file.
